


Littera Scripta Manet

by NorroenDyrd



Series: Amabilis Insania [17]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anxiety, Drunken Confessions, Epistolary, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Gen, In Vino Veritas, Light Angst, Love Letters, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Romantic Friendship, The Descent DLC
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-30
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2018-08-27 22:44:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8420059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorroenDyrd/pseuds/NorroenDyrd
Summary: A collection of letters, sent and unsent, that were exchanged at various points of the Inquisition's story by two unlikely friends and then, even more unlikely lovers: Inquisitor Lavellan and Gereon Alexius.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This letter was written during the events of the Descent DLC and before Alexius and Yavanna officially began seeing each other.

He wrote the letter without looking up, his widened eyes darting rapidly back and forth after the slightly shaking quill. Large and ruffled, it almost completely obscured the hand that held it, and appeared to push itself along the sheet of paper completely of its own accord, at a low, slanting angle, rather resembling a wounded bird – which, to continue the metaphor, made the jagged trail of ink that it left behind look an unending splatter of dark, glistening blood. And this blood kept pouring, on and on and on, gushing out of a wound that seemed to grow ever deeper. Now and again, the bleeding stopped for a short while, as the writer’s other hand, the one free from the quill, reached jerkingly for the wine glass that stood by his side. And after each prolonged, greedy, almost desperate sip, the dark lines grew bolder, and the quill moved further askew, and the bleeding renewed with even more painful force.  
  
  
**_Dearest, dearest Yavanna,_  
  
Please forgive the impertinence with which I just addressed you: my only excuse is that I have lost count of the number of hours I have spent without sleep, and throughout most of these hours, my only source of sustenance has been one of those bottles of Orlesian brandy that Dorian keeps… borrowing from the Inquisition’s wine cellars. The boy’s ~~suspect~~ ~~susspept~~ susceptibility to this particular vice has always worried me – and yet, with him away, I find myself repeating the same mistakes I once chided him for.  
  
For precisely that reason. Because he is away. Because you are away.  
  
Why did you have to go, Yavanna? Why did you have to take Dorian and make that blood-curdling descent into darkness, into emptiness, into the very bowels of the earth, with an ~~imovaable~~ immovable layer of rock separating you from the sky? Why did you have to go? There are no Rifts in the Deep Roads; surely, your personal presence is not needed to resolve that snag in the lyrium trade?  
  
I apologize if I just sounded curt: that was not my intention. I… To be frank, at this point, I do not quite know what my intention was. Or is. It’s just that – it’s just that holding this quill, and scraping, scraping all this nonsense, and ~~qeunching~~ quenching my thirst with brandy, even if I am not feeling parti... particularly thirsty – it helps me keep my mind off what dwells in that deadly underground maze.  
  
And here, look: I have made myself think of it again. That snarling, disfigured horde, with blank milky eyes and steely claws and putrid flesh. It keeps coming into the spotlight, even as I chase it away. Keeps baring these rows and rows and rows of razor-sharp teeth inside my head. Keeps leering and gloating. Leering and gloating.  
  
These creatures took the two people that I loved most; and now, when I finally moved on from that loss, what will stop them from taking my only two friends? What will stop them from infecting Dorian like they did Felix? What will stop them from falling upon you and…?  
  
Oh Yavanna, my precious, sweet, cherished Yavanna, carissima amica mea – I have never told you, have I, how much I miss you every time you leave Skyhold on your heroic quests? How stupidly, childishly impatient I get, in ~~anticiaption~~ anticipation of that moment when you burst in, like a gust of fresh wind in a stagnant room, and dazzle me with one of your radiant smiles? Well, now I miss you more than ever. Now I am not just impatient: I am terrified. It is agony in purest form, the thought that these days of waiting might turn into weeks, into months, and then I will be trapped forever in a bleak, miserable world. In a world where I would never again exchange snide banter with Dorian; where I would never again get a chance to hold your hand in mine.  
  
Please, Yavanna. Please. Come back. Let me hear your voice once more. Let me hold you close, reveling in your warmth, in the knowledge that you are really, truly alive. Come back to me, my dearest Yavanna, and bring Dorian with you, safe and sound. You both mean so much to me, and I am so awful at putting it into words. I just want to see your beautiful young faces again.  
  
I do not know when my letter will reach you, or even how I ought to go about sending it – but please, once you read it, if you ever do, try to wrap up your expe..dition…  
  
No, no, no – that sounded too much like an order, did it not? The damned brandy has stripped me of the last shreds of – no, not clothing; control over myself. I am talking to you as if you were my slave. Forgive me, if you can. And ignore these foolish drunken ramblings. You are not duty-bound to abandon your mission just because I have ~~metled~~ melted into an emotionally unstable puddle. But… but I do implore you to be careful, and to keep yourself and Dorian out of harm’s way. On my part, I shall attempt to keep myself from going completely insane. You know how it ended for the whole world the last time.  
  
I have been writing this wretched missive for so long that I do not really know how to finish it, if I dare finish it at all. So how about… I thank you, again, for all you ever did for me, and all you ever were to me. Thank you, carissima. Thank you. And please be safe.  
  
Yours always,  
  
G  
**  
  
When he finished writing, he tried to get up – but failed, a powerful wave of dizziness knocking him back into his seat. As his worn-out mind slowly began to process just how intoxicated he was, he glanced in distaste at the quill, which was still clasped in his hand and was still dripping with ink; and then, at the scrawls he had bled onto the paper under his fingertips. Choked by a flush of shame, he hastened to toss the quill aside, and, snatching the paper up, cram it into a tiny lumpy ball, which he then tossed underneath the nearest bookcase.  
  
It still lies there, that unsent, jumbled letter, long after the man who wrote it forgot all about it - with some help from Skyhold’s resident spirit boy, who sensed his disgust towards himself, and his fear of being seen in such a state, and gently escorted him to his quarters, having also thoughtfully distracted Lady Nightingale’s ever-vigilant lookouts, lest they report to their spymaster that the Tevinter researcher was drunk on the job. And long, long after the message’s intended addressee returned triumphantly from her quest in the Deep Roads, with many an exciting tale of the mysterious dark caverns and the secrets of the dwarves – and with many a hug for her flustered researcher friend, who spent more than a minute smiling incredulously and silently gazing at her and her mage companion with the impeccably trimmed moustache… before the three of them found themselves wrapped into the world’s tightest knot of upper limbs.  
  
Miraculously, neither the servants’ brooms nor the teeth of the ever-hungry rodents have disturbed the little paper ball – so one day, it may yet be discovered; perhaps by the Inquisitor herself, as she shows the parts of creatures she has defeated to Helisma the Tranquil, and a giant’s toe just happens to roll out of her grasp underneath a bookcase…


End file.
